


Death of An Alias

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an operation goes wrong, Neal is stranded in the sea with only Mozzie's paranoia for company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of An Alias

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by the lovely Virgo_79 at whitecollarhc for a fic related to Neal's revelation that he'd faked his death by shark attack.

 

 

Neal cut through the frigid water, every movement sending shards of biting pain down his leg. The horizon was gradually becoming a hazy suggestion somewhere in the distance, as dawn slowly emerged out of the inky nothingness. His body ached bitterly, cold muscles protesting every stroke, but there was nowhere to rest, nothing to cling to, just miles and miles of dark, undulating water.

This wasn’t how yacht parties usually ended, at least, not in his experience. Usually there were hangovers to cure, flights to catch and information to use - or in his recent past, FBI reports to file and lectures to feign interest in. This was an entirely new challenge – and that’s what it was, he reminded himself – a challenge. Something he could laugh about at the bureau. More fuel for Diana’s jokes.  
  
The wind was picking up now, whipping the water into a short chop, making Neal’s progress ever slower. Despite his protests, he had put on a thin wetsuit under his tux, in deference to Peter’s anxiety over the lack of readily available backup and the volatility of their suspects. It looked like he’d have some apologising to do though, because he was fairly certain this thing was saving his ass. His clothes however were getting heavy. Neal undid his belt and pants, hands cold and fumbling, and let them fall away beneath him like he had done earlier with his jacket and shoes. He’d kept hold of his shirt, trapping air inside it to give himself buoyancy, the way he’d seen on a survival show once, and his vest, which he’d tied around the wound on his leg. There were going to be some exquisitely well dressed Merpeople at the bottom of the Hudson at this rate, he thought, as he watched his clothes drift away – if indeed he was still in the Hudson. The boat had sailed for hours, looping around the waterways before heading south, its wealthy passengers safely cocooned inside. By the time the operation had gone to hell in the early hours of the morning and Neal jumped from the deck, bullets grazing his skin, they could’ve been anywhere.  
  
Distance and time had lost all meaning. During the night, the black of the sky and the black of the ocean had been almost indistinguishable and Neal hadn't been sure if he had been making any forward progress at all, or if the currents were just keeping him suspended, circling in the same spot like a fish in a bowl. Even now, as the sun rose and placed east and west in their rightful positions, the sense of disorientation persisted. He kept on regardless, swimming with the sun on his right in the hope that a northerly direction would eventually take him closer to land.

Occasionally things would brush against his legs and hands – seaweed, pieces of driftwood, trash dropped from boats – but it was what he couldn’t see, the thought of what was in the water below that kept the adrenaline surging in his veins. He was a strong swimmer, but hated deep water to a near phobic level. And it was at times like this that he really wished he didn’t know Mozzie, because, well, Mozzie had.... _theories_  about the Hudson.

Years ago, just after they’d first met and Neal was still new to the city, Mozzie had taken him on tour through Battery Park and along the shoreline. Neal had quickly learnt to accept Mozzie’s idiosyncrasies and rampant paranoia, so when he turned pale and started shouting about seeing a shark in the water, Neal had just assumed it was another one of his ruses, possibly an attempt to create New York’s answer to the Loch Ness Monster and cash in on t-shirts and mugs or something. Neal himself hadn’t seen anything, busy as he was pickpocketing a couple of men who looked like they worked on Wall Street. He’d spent the rest of the day ribbing Mozzie about his overactive imagination and wondering if everyone in New York was just as strange.   
  
Neal kept an eye on the horizon as he swam, searching for any hint of the coastline or a boat somewhere ahead. It was surprisingly quiet; with nothing to crash against, the waves swelled and dipped in a muted rhythm, making every stroke he took seem incredibly loud. The eerie calm reminded him of Monterey and Steve Tabernacle’s untimely demise in an isolated stretch of water a few miles out from Moss Landing. Five hundred dollars had bought Steve a most dramatic death, and Nick Halden a free pass out of the country, leaving a string of disgruntled agents in his wake. It had been a cool, misty morning when he and Mozzie staged the attack, flinging an artistically distressed snorkel over the side of their boat to be found by the coastguard after a tip-off about a missing swimmer. And wouldn’t that be karma, Neal thought, for that particular lie to come back and bite him in the—  
  
Neal swam a little faster.   
  
He knew it was illogical, that of all the things threatening his life at the current moment, sharks featured pretty far down on the list, but the water surrounding him was impossibly black and full of concealed dangers. He thought back to the survival documentary he’d seen and the advice about sharks they’d given swimmers:

1\. Don’t flail around in the water or you’ll look like a dying seal from below.

Well, in his defence he’d only flailed a little - for practical reasons, smacking his shirt against the water to get air into it.

2\. Don’t float on your back; you’ll look like a dead seal from below.

Okay, admittedly he’d done a little of that too, after all the flailing had tired him out. But he did have a bullet wound in his leg, so-

3\. Don’t swim with open wounds, sharks can smell blood from three miles away. 

_Shit._

_International Art Thief Drowns While Heroically Investigating Insider Trading; Peter Burke Is Not Amused. News at Eleven._ At least it sounded better than:  _Convict Mauled by Rogue Shark, Gets Just Deserts_.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Neal tried to calm his anxiety, knowing he needed to swim slowly and steadily to preserve energy. He couldn't afford to lose it and panic. He'd made it through the night and in the strengthening daylight he knew there was at least a chance he could be rescued, no matter how slim it might actually be. Still, cold logic provided very little comfort and no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to settle the overwhelming feeling of vulnerability, the knowledge that he was completely at the mercy of the ocean and everything in it. 

  
*  
  
The sun was still rising slowly, as though moving in sympathy with Neal’s own laboured strokes. Chasms of pink and orange were opening up now, little fault lines streaming out across the pale sky. It looked to be another beautiful summer’s day. June would be getting up about now, moving around the downstairs kitchen, her silk dressing gown flowing around her heels as she made coffee. They were supposed to have lunch today on the terrace.  
  
A ribbon of anxiety fluttered in Neal’s stomach. He was utterly exhausted now, arms and legs burning with every movement, stomach sore from the tension of holding himself upright in the water. He floated on his back occasionally, trying to prevent his muscles from cramping up, but he couldn't allow himself to rest for too long, knowing how easy it would be to simply drop off to sleep. It must have been hours since he jumped overboard and the only signs of life had been cargo ships far off on the horizon and the occasional, distant hum of a helicopter, but nothing came close enough to spot him.

He thought about Peter, wondering what he would be doing at that very moment.  Was he still on the police patrol boat with the rest of the backup team, or would they have turned back to the harbour? Did they think he was even still alive? Maybe they had called off the search already, assuming he had drowned in the night. That wouldn't be unreasonable, but no matter how hard he tried, Neal just couldn't summon the image of Peter walking away.

An array of scenarios continued to circle in Neal's mind, but after a time they just rattled around his head absently, like someone moving rosary beads through their fingers. As exhaustion continued to settle in, his thoughts became darker. He imagined some higher up calling off the search early to divert resources elsewhere, or the crew of a Coast Guard boat scanning the water half-assed because they knew it was only a criminal lost out there, not some politician's son in a broken down yacht. Or, maybe they would just simply miss him, fly past at the wrong moment when the glare of the water hid him, when the waves swelled and he went under for just a second too long.

  
  
*  
  
Neal jerked awake violently, coughing up water. It took a few disorientating moments for him to remember, panic tightening in his chest, lungs burning. He struck out clumsily, whining in pain as his injured leg protested, but managed to keep his head above water. The shirt he had been using to trap pockets of air had drifted away and was shimmering in the sunlight as it bobbed on the surface a few meters from him. Neal swam towards it, catching the material with the tips of his fingers just before it sank. It took him a excruciatingly long time, but eventually he re-inflated the shirt holding onto it tightly as he floated on his back, his breathing harsh and loud.  
  
A jet plane was drawing a silent white line in the sky above him. Hundreds of passengers with their little bags of pretzels and miniature bottles of wine, watching crappy movies on tiny screens. It seemed so strange for all those people to be right there above him. Thirst burned in the back of his throat. His lips were dry and cracked. There was still nothing on the horizon. The dull realisation that he was fading had begun to pulse in the back of his mind like a siren threading though the roar of a city, but somehow he felt strangely detached from it, like he had moved a couple of inches back from the world. The glare of the sun on the water made his sight waver and the arms and legs in the water felt disconnected and strange, as though they didn't belong to him any longer. His heartbeat grew loud and sluggish in his ears, a blackness pulsating around the edges of his vision - 

Neal only realised he had started to drift off again when it happened: a nudge against his lower leg. Neal jerked upright, letting out a shout of surprise. He peered down at the water trying to see what it was, but the it was too dark and murky to see anything. Maybe it had been a fish or a piece of trash - or maybe he was imagining things, but he could still feel the solidness of the touch, like a chime cutting above white noise. Neal started swimming away even though he knew there was little point; it wasn’t like there was anywhere to go. His muscles were tensed, instinctively bracing against an attack.   
  
For a long time everything was still and Neal was half convinced he had been dreaming when he felt it again, this time a hard bump against his thigh. A shadow crossed through the water beneath him and all coherent thought left his mind; he hit out blindly, churning up the water as he tried to fight against whatever was stalking him. He gasped for air, his heart hammering in his chest painfully. The shirt he had been clinging to began to sink, getting twisted up around his ankle as he kicked out. He closed his eyes tightly as he dropped under the surface. Something grabbed the back of his neck. Something else closed around his shoulder and he was pulled upwards sharply, his back colliding with a solid object.  
  
“Neal! It’s okay, it's okay! We've got you. We've got you.”  
  
Neal opened his eyes and found himself face to face with Peter, before the horizon tipped and he was sprawled on the deck of a boat. He lay there drawing in ragged breaths, paralysed by shock. Hands crowded his space then; his wetsuit was rapidly cut away before he was rolled onto his side and something soft and dry was placed under his head.  
  
“Neal? Hey, look at me. Look at me, Neal.”  Neal squinted into the sunlight to see Peter’s worried face. “You with us?” he asked, but Neal couldn't form a reply. Peter slipped an arm under him and pulled him up onto his lap. Someone placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and he gulped in the sterile, plastic air. He was shivering now, trembling painfully even though he didn't feel cold. Blankets were dropped over him and Peter tugged them up to his chin, placing a solid hand on his chest. Neal was tempted to believe this was a dream, that he was still floating somewhere out in the ocean, but then someone touched his leg and the pain that screamed down his thigh told him this was very, very real. He cried out and another person moved into his line of sight, silhouetted against the sky.

"He’s got a gunshot wound to his right leg. It’s a graze, but it's fairly deep."  The voice was distant, hazy. “Neal? Can you hear me?” There was a sharp scratch in his hand and then another in the crook of his elbow.  
  
Neal shook his head, even though he could and blinked the dark spots from his eyes. When his vision cleared he could see there were two EMTs leaning over him. Diana and some people in uniform Neal didn’t recognise were standing nearby. A bag of saline was cut open and the medic by his feet started flushing out the wound on his leg, the water running pink across the deck. And then he remembered. “Peter?” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper.  
  
Peter leaned in closer to him.  
  
“There was a shark.”  
  
“A shark shot you?” one of the EMTs asked, giving Neal a kind smile as she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm.  
  
“I think he means metaphorically,” Peter said.  
  
Neal shook his head and turned to look across the deck of the boat to the water beyond, but Peter caught his chin, gently tilting his head back with his fingers. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. "You're safe. It's okay."  
  
Neal nodded and closed his eyes, licking his cracked lips.  
  
“You think we could give him some water?” he heard Peter ask.  
  
“No, not until he's been checked out. The IV is giving him everything he needs..."  
  
Something cold was pushed into the back of his hand and everything became blurry and indistinct, the sensation of the boat swaying in the currents and the weight of Peter's touch the only things tying Neal to consciousness.  
  
  
*  
  
“You are one lucky bastard,” Diana said, before she and Christie had even crossed the threshold of his hospital room.  
  
Blearily, Neal looked down to where his bandaged leg stuck out from the mounds of blankets covering him, splinted and elevated on a pillow. It had only been a flesh wound, but required cleaning and stitching in theatre and the anaesthetic lingering in his system was making him woozy and nauseous. His eyes were sore and bloodshot and he was fairly certain his hair had dried at funny angles, though no one had been unkind enough to tell him. “You really need to reassess your definition of lucky,” Neal said, ignoring the measured look Peter shot him from where he was sat by the window. Settling back against the silk pillows June had brought from home, he tried in vain to find a more comfortable position. His body felt like it was made of Jell-O, any prolonged movement causing his overexerted muscles to shake uncontrollably. Peter had been forced to hold his cup of Gatorade and practically fed him a sandwich after he woke up from surgery that afternoon, sick to his stomach with hunger. (Elizabeth had gracefully excused herself to go on a coffee run and he and Peter had silently agreed never to speak of it again).  
  
“I think my definition is just fine,” Diana said. She held up a box that she must have been hiding behind her back. “In case you get lost at sea again.”  
  
“Water Wings.” Neal smiled sweetly. “I knew you loved me really.”  
  
Diana snorted. “I just don’t want to have to drag your sorry ass out of the ocean again.”  
  
Neal turned to Christie. “Is she always this sappy?”  
  
Christie laughed and nudged Diana with her hip. “She has her moments. So, do you really think you saw a Great White?"  
  
Neal sighed. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”  
  
Diana patted his arm as she put the box on his bedside table. “The question really answers itself.”  
  
“You know, there was that rumour a while back,” Christie said. “Apparently some crackpot said he’d seen an enormous shark in the Hudson, started a big commotion. All the local news channels were covering it. So I don't know...”

Diana threw up her hands. "Oh, don't encourage him!"  
  
“Sounds like something Mozzie would do,” Peter said with a wry smile.  
  
Neal shifted in the bed. “You don’t say."   
  
Diana and Christie stayed for a short while, with Peter reenacting the rescue operation for what seemed like the hundredth time that day and discussion of the tidal patterns of the Hudson River and the northern edge of Raritan Bay (where Neal had eventually been found), before Neal’s energy waned. As they left, Christie promised to drop by during her shift the next day to save him from boredom and maybe bring him a coffee if he promised not to tell anyone.  
  
After they had gone, Neal looked at Peter imploringly. “You believe me, right?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“You do?” Neal asked, surprised.  
  
“But I also believe you were cold, severely exhausted and in pain. What you saw could've been a piece of driftwood, or a very large bass, or just your mind playing tricks on you.”  
  
Neal shot him a doleful look. “Did I miss the point at which you got your marine biology degree?”  
  
Peter's eyes were soft with amusement. “You want me to go?” he asked. Behind him, the city was one black mass, broken only by the twinkling lights of passing traffic and the thin, dimly glowing shards of office windows.

Neal shook his head, feeling himself start to drop off to sleep. “You can stay. If you want.”  
  
Peter squeezed his toes through the sheets. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”  
  
Neal cracked an eye open. “That’s really not funny.”

 

 


End file.
